


The New Origin - Prelude

by VaporLace



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Hermaphroditism, Mindbreak, Monsters, Oral Sex, Other, Penetration, Slavery, Transformation, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaporLace/pseuds/VaporLace
Summary: A story focusing on the scenario of what-ifs; What if the Warrior of Light could not overcome their conversion into a Sineater and the Scions lost their fight. What if Emet-Selch was far too fond of his rival to put her out of her misery, but instead found uses for her instead?
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- This includes spoilers for various elements of Final Fantasy XIV.

Prelude

* * *

  
  


The door slammed as -he- strode into the cell.

The cell itself was black as pitch, but in her altered state it shone bright, beyond the point of helpfulness. Everything was blazing brilliant, washing out, losing detail. She reflected on that before another fit of heaving coughs overtook her, sending muscle and bone into a wracking spasm. Phlegm worked its way up her throat and out into the air, crashing to the floor, and like everything, her sense of hearing made its own changed faculty known, the glowing white scum thundering against the floor in a violent cacophany.

Her mind racing thought-to-thought, she regained control of her chest and lungs long enough to force herself out of the prostrate position and onto her knees, the cough replaced by heavy breathing as her brain suddenly processed the presence of another, and her eyes shot upwards towards the source of the intrusion.

"My, my my..." his voice came with all its characteristic hubris and lackadaiscal charm. "Aren't we progressing nicely along..."

He kneeled down, pulling her alabaster chin up in the crook of a finger, his eyes connecting with the glistening jet-black stare that met them.

"Agape..."

That name was what he called her, but it felt incorrect, wrong, alien, and foreign, but all at the same time she could not place a notion as to why. She stared at him, this alien master who seemed just as familiar and foreign. She knew only that she loved him, that she was bound to love him and that such was her duty. She knew that this had not always been so, and that he had won out the hold over her through her own failings, and so this dynamic, this mode, this state - it was her deserved fate.

The Amaurotine wizard himself had not simply left the transformation of this old nemesis to chance either, no. As a master of creation magicks and bleak, dark aetherological methods he had worked his own will on her, distorting the slow transformation that overtook her, allowing it to quicken, then regress, to intensify and then recess.

His name was Emet-Selch, and to all and any who stood against him now he was as a God, free to work his will and restore that which he had lost, and this creature before him, its flesh an undulating mass of ivory heaves and quivers, was his trophy, his victor's prize.

Agape was his queen, his conquest, his toy, his whore.

And he was her God, and she loved him.

"And what shall we do today?" He asked

Agape couldn't speak - she had no tongue, no mouth, at least not at the moment. She did not recall the past, her old brash tongue of silver that had found purchase on many loves and lives. It had, once, talked her way out of trouble and into it. But now, unless specified, Emet-Selch had no need of it, and so his hand at fleshcraft had not deemed fit to let it be kept. Her mouth was useful for other things, carnal and carnage both. Her back, once sporting smooth supple skin with the kiss of the sun in its complexion, was ivory-white, runic strings of black curling through it like the engravings on some fine piece of alabaster pottery. From her shoulders sprouted great wings, batlike in shape though not in color. Her hair, once a vibrant ever-changing rainbow, was as shock-blaze white as the rest of her. Dull, white-golden trim appeared hither and thither. The nails, the teeth. She had taken so much of Hydalyn's light inside that she had become an ever shifting beacon of it's radiance.

His question left with predictably with no answer he pulled up with his hand, guiding her to her feet as the chains binding her here rattled. He was taller than her by nearly a head and a half and her form, though monstrous, was petite by comparison. His touch excited her, and the peace between her legs began to warm and stiffen. Her legs and arms, no longer simple toned specimens of adventurous athleticism had followed suit in their monstrous transformations. On some days they were writhing tendrils, on others, clawed hooks. Today they were some amalgam of statuesque beauty and surreal horror - no chirugeon would have been able to pin point exactly how they were able to function, with twisting beautiful strings of flesh making knotwork limbs, light shining from inside the hollow spaces that in any other similar shape might have housed red blood and white bone.

"Shall we have dinner in the palace?" He asked. "I think so, don't you?"

His thumb rubbed across the blank space above her chin and jaw and in it's wake it left beautifully sculpted lips, black as ebony against their pallid backdrop. "Don't you?" He asked, firmer this time, his eyes narrowing on her own black and blank stare, which seemed now suddenly to become alert, first fearful, and then resigned, staring into his eyes.

"I think so." She replied.

Her words were her own, but the voice was not - it was as a hundred voices, compacted into a single song. Any mortal who would hear it would surely be driven mad, but Emet-Selch had ceased to be mortal eons ago.

He leaned in, pulling her face to the side and laying his lips on her neck, placing a biting kiss there before releasing her face. "But that is for later, what shall we do now?"

The cell gave way to something else, space and time and matter shifting and twisting until they were no longer in that dark room, but in another, this one more tastefully lit, though still dark. It's black marble flooring, austere golden flourishes, and deep dark coloring placed them in Emet-Selch's re-imagined Amaurot, but if it was the same one peeking from her memories, she did not know, or care. She was here for one thing, one thing made apparent as Emet-Selch spun her around, taking her form firm in his hands, squeezing, pinching, caressing, pulling her into his strong embrace as he bit at her neck again.

The deep wells of black that served as her eyes could make out the details here, whether it was from his magicks curbing the effects of Hydalyn's curse or a sudden recession of its symptoms come about naturally during the strange ebb and flow of her condition, she didn't know. Such trivialities were inconsequential and irrelevant and that point was hammered home as she felt herself stiffen further as her Master pulled her close, pressing his hips against her back in both a warning and a threat, exciting her, making her loins further weep with enticement and begin to ache with anticipation. This was his conqeust, his reward, and her reality.

This was her new origin, and just like the previous one, she thanked her God for it.

His hands reached her shoulders and the pressure buckled her knees and she sank slowly to the floor, turning her head and leaning it back as he threw off the robes he wore, sitting back on the elegant bed behind them, its crimson sheets' silky texture lost on her single-mindedness. She turned, not rising from her knees and tugged at his breeches, her hand rubbing over the swell in his pants she'd come to know so well. When his full length came to bear she took it in her hands, warming it and working it, relishing her sucessful ministrations as He rolled his head back in appreciative tension, pulling her white-haired head down after her newfound lips wrapped themselves around him. The fire in this bedchamber roared, and gave heat, but she did not feel it. In her single-mindedness she knew only the pursuit of the goal, and the goal was the pleasure of her lord and all else came second to that end.

Faster now she worked at her will, and his girth grew and filled her mouth and throat and she grabbed at his hips, clutching at him with golden claws as she sought ample reward for her defeat.

Emet-Selch, for his part, reveled in this devilry. The emmissary of the Ascians, the harbinger of Zodiark, had set out to accomplish his goals and collected quite the prize in so doing. As he thrust his hips into the face of what was once the enemy and antithesis to all of his carefully laid plans, he relished in this domination and let out a quiet groan before planting his hand at the back of Agape's head, snapping his fingers in an unneccessary flourish, allowing her to choke a moment as he restored her need for air, for breath, as he restored in her, albeit briefly, a sense of danger and worry. Her throat exuded quiet chortles and gags as he held it there, but she did not push against his grip, because this was what she knew, and loved, and deserved. This was her fate and if she died because of it, then so be it.

As she gagged on his forceful ministry, he was quite pleased with himself. He rarely tired of this particular style of gloating. In his eons of life he'd had many loves, he'd had many lusts, and he'd had many that straddled the line between love and hatred, but none so much as this villain, this veritable thorn who had nearly thrown centuries upon millenia of planning to the side. He hated her, but he'd also grown fond of her, at least enough to leash her and keep her as a pet. It was only right, he thought to himself as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into her wanting and waiting throat, that Zodiark hold dominion over Hydalyn in all things, not just in spirt and practice, but in mortal matters as well. And so this domination and conquest of his was more than some lustful victory lap - it was a symbol and a warning to any out there who remained that there was no foe too great for him to overcome. He felt her throat tighten on him and he thrust upwards and forwards one final time as his toes curled and he felt a moment of tension followed by a rush of release as he filled her.

When he let go, she pulled back, letting him slip out of her mouth and hanging her head again, saliva and slickness dripping from those charcoal-colored lips and white-gold teeth. The course had only served to strengthen her sense of hunger, and her own member, caged in some ancient device, was mercilessly hard, bucking at its restraints but unable to unleash itself - a torment she welcomed as it was a gift to her from Him. The rest of her nethers, rendered hermaphroditic in its newfound divinity, dripped hungrily, and as his arms pulled her up from the floor and onto his lap, she sank onto him, felt him fill the void in her - this was, these days, the purest source of her happiness. To be used for such holy purpose was nothing short of a blessing, and she began to return his thrusts twofold, and when his thoughts invaded hers and bid her let loose her thoughts she moaned, and those moans switched to whimpers and back, sometimes shifting into some ancient primal glossolalia that even Emet-Selch did not recognize. He fucked her there, and as his hands rubbed and tugged at the sensitive parts of her undulating form, she felt herself changing in his grasp flesh shunting into flesh and back, each change and transmogrification painful and wonderful, grotesque and beautiful, erotic and disgusting. When he came inside of her, she welcomed it and did not stop her own bucking and heaving, leaning forward and digging her head into his chest, her mouth spewing forth gratitudes in dead languages lost to the eons, a reflexive vomit of the Echo that no longer aided her, only served as a brief and troubling reminder of a life she no longer lived.

Agape could not forgive herself, so she was forever cursed to beg forgiveness from the only one who could give it.

Only God could judge, and so he did. 

She remained atop him a while, gripping at him with forceful flexes of her hips and thighs, indulging in his thickness, in his strength, exalting his breath on her neck when he reached up to pull her close. Worshipping the touch of his hands on her breasts, being ever grateful that one so sinful would deign to touch one rendered so filthy and innocent. Their concerted gyrations began to slow after a while, and though she had not been given release, as it was not deserved, he had done so twice.

"You awful, pitiful creature," said Emet-Selch, "I have such sights to show you, and quite the gift to give besides. "Ah, but I mustn't spoil it. I will see you at dinner!"

He stood, leaving her heaving, dripping, and dumb on the bed, pulling closed his pants and slinging the heavy robe over his shoulder. "And there all shall be revealed."

His tone was playful but imposing, as she might have once remembered, but there was a sinister and mean-spirited glee in it as well. "Handmaidens?" He said, turning with a flourish and giving a sauntering wave of his hand as he headed for the grand chamber door, opening it and stepping out, the opulent bedchamber given way again to a different room - some sort of bathing chamber full of sweet smelling oils and the humidity of a freshly run hot pool of water.

Standing at the entrance to this pool were the handmaidens themselves, Hubris and Idolatry - both Forgiven as she, but not so elevated as a Lightwarden. They each resembled monstrous reflections of their former selves; Hubris a small, twisted elezen, winged and collared, and Idolatry a reformed Sun Seeker, both also former enemies of God, now Forgiven and condemned to walk in his Shadow as servile and penitent. They moved from the bath to the bed, pulling Agape to her quaking feet, wordlessly beckoning her to prepare for the evening's fete.

Meanwhile, somewhere nearby looking out through tinted glass, immaculate and clean, across the yawning chasm that hosted this ancient reconstruction, was Emet-Selch himself. Ascian shades, lives without life, skittered to and fro about his own chambers, assembling his garb for the coming festivities. His expression was one of stoic boredom, but his mind raced at the torturous play he was about to visit upon his dearest Agape. At that singular portent his lip curled in a hungry sneer.

* * *


	2. A Righteous Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short addendum to the Prelude. Emet-Selch stews, waiting for Lightwarden Agape while Idolatry and Hubris fight over his affections before they are interrupted with news of the arrival of Agape and their guest of honor.

Emet-Selch stewed in his boredom and feelings of a still hollow victory.

He sat there on his gilded throne, meant to reflect the one he’d fashioned for himself in his guise as an Emperor, a sole finger tracing the filigree inlaid into its delicate craftsmanship in idle futility and impotent frustration.

It was lonely being at the top.

With the remaining Scions scattered to the wind, the shards slowly but surely falling to rejoining after rejoining, there was no flavor, no spice, no danger to life anymore. Of course, he had his pet projects. Lazing about on either side of him were two of his trophies. Hubris, its useless eyes rendered blind by its former self’s daliances inside of the lifestream, stared listlessly forward at nothing, the pearlescent silken ribbon around its eyes shimmering in the orange glow of the great fire that illuminated the austere chamber. Idolatry stroked the wrist and hand of her master, as if the very feeling of his skin on her palid, twisted flesh brought comfort to the unending agony of her existence, so long as he was near.

Forgiven Hubris and Forgiven Idolatry, two former Scions, both willful and strong in their former forms, had been remade by their final encounters with the as yet absent Agape, Lightwarden of the First, formerly the Warrior of Light herself.

His free hand’s finger ceased its endless tracing of filigree and rose to the level of his pale eyes, massaging away a minor ache lurking beneath the center of his brow. Funny, he thought, that a man such as him, who’d lived countless lifetimes, felt countless loves, and died countless deaths, should still be so troubled by something so minor and trivial as a headache. It was both frustrating and humorous in the extreme, and, without a single moment of hesitation, as if this discomfort could be felt in the very air around him, Idolatry rose to her feet, circling around the chair behind him, resting her bare behind at a comfortable angle and began rubbing at his temples, working at his forhead.

Emet-Selch purred at this attendant’s ministrations, and his pensive pout cracked into a modest smile.

As if out of jealousy, Hubris gripped at his hand, pulling on it to express discontent, and he looked down at her with a quizzical expression as Idolatry continued massaging behind his ears, at his temples, on his forehead.

“Don’t be jealous because she is more aware…” He said, flipping her hand into his grip and pulling her arm up with disregard for discomfort. “Mayhaps you should think of a way to compete.

A sort of realization seemed to wash over the blaze-white features of Hubris and, her hand slipping from his, she rested herself on the opposite side of the grand chair from Idolatry, but rather than simply trying to force her companion off of him, she took amore direct and aggressive tack, as was her way, her fingers, dainty but deft and tipped in long lack claws, reached down the loose-hanging opening of his shirt, caressing at his chest, her sense of touch taking in the subtle raises and depressions of scars and muscular geography, going down then past his chest, further down, further.

Emet-Selch purred at this touch, having forgotten the dull throb in his brain now for a different dull throb all together, and Idolatry had also noticed this bellweather change, glaring at Hubris witch clenched jaws and glaring eyes as she slipped from the chair, tracing her own fingers along her Master’s arm as she rounded in front of him, kneeling down in an attempt to head Hubris off at the pass, resting her head against his lap, pushing into it, looking up to him with wont on her brow and hunger on her lips.

“That’s the fighting spirt -I- remember…” He said, headache all but forgotten before groaning at a rapping upon the immense doorway to the chamber interrupting his entertainment. Two more Sin eaters, each below the honor of a name, at least one that would stick in his preoccupied mind, pulled open the doors at his commanding nod, and in walked one of his brethren, becloaked, bemasked, head low in reverence. “Agape has returned, Architect! She has him.”

“Waters? Leveilleur?” He said, sitting forward in his throne, casting both handmaidens aside. “Speak, brother, I would know!”

“Thancred Waters, Architect! He is in holding cells below. Agape rests in its cell as well…”

Emet-Selch lilted to one side, imagining some imaginary trinket in his hand and staring deeply into it. “Do not let her sleep. I would have a meal and my answers before the day is out.”

He stood, moving to the great glass pane that separated the opulence of this grand council hall from the thrumming, strobing thunder of the displaced ocean beyond the confines of Amaurot’s breathable sanctuary.  
“Hm, yes… I would have a meal, and I know just whom to use for the main course.”

“Brother!” He said, catching his fellow before he was out of earshot. “Do not bother yourself with the message. I think I should pay my prize a visit, to prepare her for the revelries to come. Hubris! Idolatry, make yourselves useful and draw a bath. A feast must needs be prepared and we must all look our best.”

He turned back to the view of Amaurot, eternal dusk made manifest in its endless cityscape.

“We’ve good last impressions to make on our guest of honor…”

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is my first submission and first and foremost I would like to thank you for reading.  
> \- I welcome constructive criticism but spiteful/hateful nonsense will just be laughed at.


End file.
